Pain started to throb above his right eyebrow. The way it did whenever he was thinking too hard and long about one thing—and not finding a reasonable solution.
Swallowing away his ire, he again assessed the prospective bride pool.
Aye, he may have been giving the illusion of looking through the throngs and assessing every entrant, but what he was really trying to do was find the gorgeous lass he’d encountered by the water barrels. A spark of interest had ignited within him the moment he laid eyes on her. A tiny flame he’d not yet been able to extinguish. Macrath rarely messed with women—unless the physical need reached a point at which he might engage in brawling in order to release some pent up energy. But even then, he took precautions to ensure no bastards came of the frenzied unions.
So why now, did he find himself desiring Ceana? Why, when nothing could come of it?
A vision of her flashed in his mind as he assessed the faces and hair of the women lining up in a myriad of muted and bright colored plaid gowns.
Wild auburn hair had framed her face in wet tendrils. Almond-shaped eyes, the color of the sea, lined with dark long lashes. Skin that was creamy enough to think she’d taken a bath in milk and spice. Though her gown had seen better days—probably years before—she carried herself with all the superiority of a royal. She outranked all the others not only in beauty, the strength of her shoulders, but also in her wit. He was impressed that she could be wry and funny in a situation as tense and dangerous as theirs.
Another horn blew, vibrating inside Macrath’s gut, and sending a thrill rushing through him. He curled his fingers against his palm. He was ready for the games to begin.
“All right, you pitiful whelps, get to your lines!” The tent steward was joined by the gate steward and two other men he’d not seen before.
At the man’s bellow everyone rushed, several shoving forward and jostling those in front of them—a few fell, getting trampled. Being in the front line, Macrath helped people to right themselves, and shouted at those who were shoving. But his warnings to slow down were ignored by those hastened on by the stewards.
As he righted yet another victim, out of the corner of his eye he observed a woman easily as tall as he, shove forward, knocking someone else to the ground. The downed female’s cries for help were outweighed by the sound of the stewards hoarding the masses. No one went to her aid, instead walking right over her, happy to see her buried in the dirt.
“Move aside, you horse’s arses!” Macrath shouted. When he bent down to help the slight lass, he noted her hair as red as berries, and creamy, soft skin. She was the one he’d been looking for. Ceana.
His heart pounded against his ribs, breath hitching in a way that made him want to smack sense into himself.
“Och, lass, are ye all right?” he asked, keeping his grip on her arms and tugging her up close. Closer than he needed to. She was tiny against him, and he had the overwhelming urge to keep her against him, to protect her. And then he noticed the plushness of her breasts pressed against his chest and his thoughts turned decidedly southward. She was soft, warm, and gods, but he could picture her lying naked with him beneath the moon and stars. Her skin would glow in the moonlight and he’d—
Ceana’s stormy eyes locked on his, question, fear and most of all, strength, spinning in their depths. The look was enough alone to halt his wild hunger—well, somewhat anyway.
“As well as I can be,” she said with a shaken smile, her gaze darting all around as though she expected to be roughly yanked from his arms and tossed back to the ground.
Macrath smiled back. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, her hair loosening all the more and whipping against her cheeks. “I’ll live.”
“I hope you do.” And he meant it in more than just this moment. Out of all the women in the games, he wanted Ceana to win. Because he intended to win. And if they should both raise their arms in victory when the final game was over—they’d be married.
Aye, ’twould be a marriage of convenience, nothing more, but even knowing that, he was willing to dive headlong to the kirk with her. The thought both thrilled and disturbed him. Macrath had always imagined himself marrying at some point, for several reasons, one being that he’d like to be able to bed a woman whenever he pleased and not be worried about the bastard born of it. But the other reason was entirely of a more vulnerable nature. He was lonely. He wanted someone to wake up with every morning. Someone who looked forward to him returning after a day’s worth of training and a body to pray for him when he was away fighting wars.
And he could picture Ceana—above any of the other women here—being that woman for him. That was all it was. He didn’t want to marry any of the other women. She would do. He’d have to make sure she stayed alive.
A warrior pushed from the opposite direction of the throng and gripped onto Ceana’s elbows. Macrath’s gut reaction was to tug her back, but the way she looked at the stranger showed she knew him.
He glowered at Macrath as he spoke. “Are you all right, my—”
But Ceana cut the man off before he could finish. “I am not hurt, Aaron.” She squared her shoulders and stepped away from Macrath causing his hands to fall from her arms. “Go back to your spots and I’ll go to mine.” She looked first to Aaron and then to Macrath. “I don’t want either of you to get into trouble for breaking rank.”
Macrath heard her words, but he was still thinking about her friend’s speech. She was a lady. He was certain the man was going to call her my lady. Or was he going to call her something else—something endearing like, my darling, or my sweetheart? That thought sent a pang of jealousy through him. And not a feeling he wanted to have. Especially not going into a war game. Perhaps distance would do him good. He’d known the lass for less than a few hours and already he was imagining the sun glistening off her hair as dawn awakened. Not any way to win this thing, with his cock doing the thinking for him.
The man she called Aaron eyed Macrath as though he’d threatened to scoop her up and serve her to his clan for dinner. Was it jealousy he saw in the other man, or was it simply overprotectiveness? Macrath grinned. Truth be told, he’d been thinking about just that. He might scoop her up, but the only one he’d be serving was her—and pleasure would be all he offered.
Hell and damnation. His body reacted quickly to the thought, pumping blood from his limbs to his groin. He refused to shift which would only draw attention to his discomfort. Instead he kept his eyes steadily on Aaron a moment longer then turned to Ceana.
He studied her face, taking in the few freckles that dotted her nose. “I wish you well, Ceana.”
“And you,” she said. There was a moment of hesitation. A moment where she looked as though she wanted to say something more. She chewed her lip, squinted her eyes.
And he, too, wanted to say more. To tell her to find him as soon as she could, so he could offer her protection. To tell her that she should hide wherever she could to outlast as many as she could. To offer something that would help her survive. Hell, she’d fallen on the walk to supper.
But before he could mouth a coherent thought, she turned her back on both of them and shoved her way into the horde of women. This time around, she did plenty of her own elbowing and cursing as she made her way to her assigned row. Macrath found himself smiling after her, but a grunt to the side of him wiped his smile clean.
“Stay away from her,” Aaron growled. “I served her brother, and he’d not take kindly to his sister being devoured by a brute like you.”
Macrath raised a brow, not deigning to waste a breath on the jealous man’s warning.
“Just, leave off.” Aaron returned to his spot in the ranks leaving Macrath to search out Ceana in the crowd of women.
The horn blew again and anyone left in the path between the men and women’s lines were shoved aside by guards as the two strangers he’d seen earlier rode in on horses along with three additional people—one of whom was a woman.
They were all dr
essed in regal plaids, fully decked out in weapons, and with thick gold royal arms pins holding their plaids in place. These were the members of the royal council in charge of the games. And a woman? Macrath had not known there was a woman involved. Though, he supposed he should have. These games were all about equality—men and women put to the same tests. It made sense that a previous Lady Morrison would be here to pass the sword onto the next.
She stared at the female side of warriors, her gaze raking them over, yet revealing nothing. When she turned to the men, she did much the same. She was beautiful, and a strength emanated from her, that made her seat upon the horse and position in the council believable.
“Warriors! Welcome to the twentieth annual war games!” shouted the female council member.
A roar went up in the crowd, and Macrath found himself cheering, too, his fist pumping into the air. As before, the thrill of battle rushed through him.
“Quiet!” bellowed several of the guards.
The woman smiled, and there was a harshness to her that Macrath hadn’t seen before. “I entered these games once. Won them in fact, fifteen years ago.” He’d not seen from this distance her age, but she had to be in her forties. The passage of time had done her well.
“The rules,” she called out, and snapped her fingers. A steward rushed forward and handed her a thick leather casing. She opened the case, and withdrew a parchment scroll. “As you know, the rules are changed for every game so as to be fair to each entrant. No one can prepare for what is to come—and trust me, none of you are prepared.”
Macrath swallowed. He’d been through war. Been tortured and tormented by his stepmother. Been through hell when he was repeatedly jumped by his half-brother’s friends when they were so deep in their cups they didn’t know when to stop. Been left in the woods by his stepmother to suffer the terrors of night before he reached his tenth birthday—she’d hoped he wouldn’t make it. But Macrath was a survivor as well as a warrior.
Across the crowd, he caught sight of Ceana. She was staring at him, eyes wide. He wished he could give her some of his strength. Ease the fear he knew she must be feeling inside. He smiled at her, hoping to give her some peace and was rewarded with a slight lift of her lips.
“There will be no supper. You’ve all been called here because the games begin tonight!”
At that, a storm of guards weaved through the lines of men and women patting them up and down in search of any hidden weapons. Men and women were yanked to the center and thrown on the ground in front of the council members, their sgian dubhs and whatever other weapons they’d hidden up their sleeves or down their boots tossed beside them.
“Some of you did not follow the rules. No quarter given!” shouted the woman.
The dozen or so entrants who’d not followed the rules, were lifted up to their feet and dragged down the line to wooden stakes that were once trees stripped of their branches. They were tied to the stakes, backs exposed with a quick swipe of a knife.
“Rules are important here. We heed them. Live by them. Die by them.”
At the last of her words, the beatings commenced with those attached to the posts. It was unbearable to watch, even for Macrath who’d seen much. The guards were relentless, brutal. Skin flayed open, blood spraying, screams pummeling the air.
“We’ll wait,” the woman said, rolling her eyes.
Heartless bitch. He knew his stepmother to be callous, but this woman—she was a hundred times worse. Were all the women who won the games destined to become like her? Hard, cruel, vicious?
Would Ceana?
“Oh, I’ve had enough. Silence them,” she ordered the guards. They stepped up to the victims and sliced their throats. Several gasps went up through the ranks. To the rest of the crowd she turned her implacable gaze and said, “No quarter given.”
A cold feeling settled in Macrath’s stomach. A feeling of realness that he’d not had before. And the only thing he could do about it was move forward, because to look back was out of the question.
“Each war game has a set of five games—one for every year you will rule. Each of the five games has a set of rules, and rather than waste my breath telling those of you who will not be here to face them, I give out the rules for each game just before we set you loose.” Her grin was overexcited, hungry. “At the end of the fifth game, only two of you will be standing here before me. One male. One female. Before you’re allowed to rejoice in having survived, you will be wed and a contract signed.”
The crowd was silent, not one person wanting to anger this woman who saw to it that anyone not abiding her rules was executed on sight.
“With each game, not only will you fight each other, but another common enemy. Only the fiercest and strongest among you shall win.” She raised her hand and pointed down the field toward the thick wall that lined the back of Sìtheil Castle’s outer courtyard. “You will go through the gate—and we will close the door behind you. No one shall seek safety behind these walls, save the guards, stewards, and us on the royal council. We shall blow a horn when you are to exit these walls and we shall blow the horn when we want you to return. A third horn will blow when those who’ve survived the round have crossed through the gate. If you hear three horns, best turn your blade on yourself, for we will give no quarter to those who do not return in time.”
The female council member turned to the man beside her and inclined her head, he nodded and continued with the rules.
“Through the gate you will go and cross the rear bridge to the field. Strewn among the thick grass are the weapons we’ve chosen to give you for this round. Seize them. There are not enough for everyone. Cunning plays a part in this game. A ruler must not only be good with strength of body but strength of mind and heart.”
The third council member pushed his horse forward and faced the crowd. “Prepare yourselves, for you have enlisted in the sacred war games. Games that have given peace to our lands for a hundred years. You are now a part of this peace, this spiritual reckoning. May the gods protect you and bring us the one male and female who shall rule Sìtheil Castle with an iron fist!”
All the ruling council raised their fists in the air and once they issued a battle cry, the whole of the field did, too.
But overshadowing that cry, were hundreds of tumultuous thoughts, fears, wishes.
Above all that, was the sound of the horn, and then the thundering of feet as the crowd of men and women rushed the gates.
The game was on.
Chapter Four
For the span of a breath Ceana stood rooted in place. Her feet would not budge, her limbs ignored all imploring from her to move. The sound of the horn still echoed in her ears. Around her, women scrambled, and others stood just as immobile as she. The sun was beginning to set and within the hour they’d all be blanketed in darkness.
That was when the true nightmare would begin. When she was blinded both by darkness and fear.
With her next inhale, her entire body came to life. Ceana leapt forward, arms outstretched as though she’d wade through the sea of people in order to make it to the gate. All happened in impossibly slow motion. With her right hand she gripped one woman’s shoulder in front of her, and with the left, another, propelling herself forward, and between them, before grabbing onto the next.
“Get off me!” someone shouted.
“Move!” called another.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Bitch!”
Ceana gritted her teeth through it all, saving her breath, her life’s essence. But that last one brought an ironic smile to her face. The Bitch of MacRae. Well, she’d live up to it, because dammit, she was going to live.
The gate was within feet of her when she felt arms grabbing at her from behind, she shoved at them, feeling the sharp nails of her assailant dig into her skin.
“No!” Ceana cried. She’d come this far and would not allow someone to yank her back. She was going to get to that field. She was going to find a weapon. She would pr
evail.
But the hands were strong, tugging, scratching. Anger boiled in her, giving her a feral edge, and she fisted her hands, pummeling at those who grappled with her, emitting a noise from her own throat she’d never heard before. Half growl, half shriek.
At last she broke free and dove through the gate, stumbling with the speed, but forcing herself not to lose her ground. Ceana sprinted forward as though the damned MacLeods were on her heels—and they very well could have been. Her feet pounded over the wooden bridge and then sunk into the wetted grass, splashes of water and mud flicking up onto her. But she didn’t slow. Didn’t look back.
She darted this way and that. Between women and men who scrambled in the grass on hands and knees to find a weapon. Spun away from those who had already procured their weapons and were eager to slice her in two. Leapt over the bodies of those who’d not been so lucky. This was battle. But worse than any battle she’d ever witnessed for there were no sides. She was her only ally and everyone else wanted her dead.
Ceana rushed to the left, as far afield as she could without gaining attention from anyone wanting to chase after her—including the guards up on the wall who had been ordered to shoot any who deigned to run from the games. Though she looked all around her, making certain not to lose track of her scrambling enemies, she flicked her gaze all around the ground, searching for some sign of difference. A glint of metal off the fading sun. A discoloration in the grass. Something. Anything.
She had to have a weapon.
A couple dozen paces ahead there was a disturbance in the grass. Long, brown. Could be a snake. But could also be a bow—and she was damned good with a bow.
“Mine!” shouted She-muscle—a woman Ceana had never wanted to see again. The woman gritted her teeth as she barreled through the grass toward the bow, trying to outrun Ceana. “Better run, little chickie, before I see my arrow through your heart.”
Lords of the Isles Page 98